


Searching For the World

by Salios



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Fallout, Fallout crossover, M/M, Mutant!Peter, Raider!Wade, Spideypool - Freeform, Spideypool Big Bang 2018, Vault-Dweller!Peter, mutant!Wade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-23 02:19:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17674562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salios/pseuds/Salios
Summary: Peter dreamt of bright hazel eyes and wicked white teeth. The flash of a sharp blade sliding into flesh — again. Again. Againagainagain.The metal sliding out, slick and red. It flipped over before plunging back in, sawing upwards through flesh, muscle, cartilage. The snapsnapsnap of tendon and the grind of steel on bone.A body fell. Then another. And another. Some were green, others pink. He couldn’t see their faces, just blood and stewing darkness. A hand, coming from the dark to grasp his wrist. Fear coursing through him. Panic. His senses screaming at him to runrunrunrunrun“Baby Boy,” came the whisper.------Peter’s eyes shot open and he stared at the ceiling in a cold sweat. He’d gone searching for the world, but he’d found hell instead.





	Searching For the World

**Author's Note:**

> This is my collaboration with Petitechez-theminion (http://petitechez-theminion.tumblr.com) for the Spideypool Big Bang 2018!
> 
> My prompt was for a Fallout/Spideypool crossover and Chez more than delivered! Please visit her on tumblr, her work is amazing!
> 
> As always, views are appreciated and comments mean everything to me (seriously, first fic posted in like, a year). Feel free to contact me on Tumblr for prompts or just to chat.
> 
> Enjoy!  
> \-----  
> http://petitechez-theminion.tumblr.com/post/182586659015/searching-for-the-world-by-salios-this-is-a
> 
> http://Salios.tumblr.com

_Peter dreamt of bright hazel eyes and wicked white teeth. The flash of a sharp blade sliding into flesh — again. Again. Againagainagain._

_The metal sliding out, slick and red. It flipped over before plunging back in, sawing upwards through flesh, muscle, cartilage. The_ snapsnapsnap _of tendon and the grind of steel on bone._

 _A body fell. Then another. And another. Some were green, others pink. He couldn’t see their faces, just blood and stewing darkness. A hand, coming from the dark to grasp his wrist. Fear coursing through him. Panic. His senses_ screaming _at him to runrunrunrunrun._

_“Baby Boy,” came the whisper._

Peter’s eyes shot open and he stared at the ceiling in a cold sweat. He’d gone searching for the world, but he’d found hell instead.

 

* * *

 

                                     

 

Everyone said that the world ended when the bombs fell.

Realistically though, it was society as they knew it that ended. The government that had bragged about contingency plans and infallibility crumbled like rotting wood under a gentle foot press. Members of state, businessmen, celebrities, and the otherwise elite disappeared into private hideaways, thinking they could avoid the fallout if they hid far enough.

There were Vaults; great metal structures built deep underground meant to house generations of survivors, but they had long wait lists and longer financial dues. The majority of the population survived daily on the belief that the cold war would never boil over and they would never see a nuclear winter. But they were wrong. So very, very, wrong.

It had been over two hundred years since the bombs fell across the United States and still, they haunted the world. Peter Parker was a descendant of the original citizens of Vault 264. They had been a primarily scientific community gathered to conduct further experiments to enhance human life after the world ended. He hadn't known his grandparents, and his parents had died during an accident in their lab when he was only a child.

His great aunt and uncle had been left the task of raising Peter, one they had undertaken with gusto. That was, of course, until Uncle Ben had suffered acute radiation sickness.

He hadn't been particularly science-minded and had instead worked to maintain the Vault’s physical integrity. But everyone in the Vault paid their way somehow, and Ben's efforts had kept them running safely for decades. When he had fallen ill and no cure had been forthcoming, the community had made the decision to put him into cryogenic stasis. Cryo was one of the original tasks set to the Vault two and a half centuries before but, given the lack of materials, had fallen by the wayside. Ben was placed within one of the few working units with the hope that, someday, there would be a way to help him.

It had been ten years since Ben had been put into stasis, and the old machinery was beginning to show its age. The panel lights would flicker and the display would often show less than optimal output. They had to divert power from other parts of the Vault to keep the unit powered, leaving sections in rolling blackouts or uninhabitable. Peter hated it. He hated seeing his aunt drawn and tired. He hated seeing his uncle’s pained grimace frozen behind the unit’s glass. He hated the looks the other residents would sometimes send his way; pitying, resentful, worried.

Peter desperately, for his own sake, needed to do something; he needed to solve this problem before it worsened. It was, after all, his fault that Ben was in stasis.

Peter’s parents, while they had been alive, had focused their minds on the subject of human evolution. Throughout the decades there had been radiation leaks, famine, drought, and civil unrest, like with any closed community. Adaptations had manifested as biological mutations. Several of the residents had lost their hair and suffered severe skin lesions until they resembled shambling husks. Some of those had survived the changes mentally intact. Others… The Vault wouldn’t be lacking for beds anytime soon, regardless.

In some cases, the mutations had been introduced by the residents themselves. Peter’s parents had been focused on the task of strength and longevity, looking to better prepare the workforce for Vault expansion and, eventually, expeditions out into the world beyond the Vault doors. They’d taken their own genes and modified them, attempting to force beneficial mutations. Their work, some said in hushed whispers, had been their undoing. The deaths of the Parker duo were still shrouded in mystery and secrecy, even two decades after.

Their work though, had lived on.

Peter had taken an interest at a young age, determined to continue his parents’ work to benefit the community, and give himself some kind of connection to the people he barely remembered. By the age of sixteen, he had his own lab — the one in which his parents had died was indefinitely quarantined — to work. But that hadn’t been enough for him, sifting through old logs and audio recordings of their research. His two friends had helped him sneak into the quarantine zone and into his parents’ old lab, desperate for some kind of lead that he hadn’t yet found. Peter had spent time fiddling with canisters and old lab equipment, too much time. In powering up his parents’ terminal he hadn’t considered what else would come online.

The containment unit for the Parkers’ research pod had been breached and turning the terminal online had booted up their last experiment. Peter had been inspecting some paperwork left inside, too engrossed with his mother’s chicken scratch and his father’s neat block lettering to notice the extended syringe. The module had stuck him in the hand, needle dispensing its dosage with a swift accuracy that left Peter reeling.

And then the radiation catalyst had come online.

The catalyst had been intended to mimic natural evolution over time, spurring the body’s ability to adapt under pressure. Peter didn’t remember anything after that, but had woken to find his body… different. His two eyes had multiplied into eight and a layer of soft hair had grown across his body. Where the hair hadn’t grown his skin had thickened into a carapace, protecting his chest, belly, and legs. It was terrifying and awkward, especially with MJ and Ned unable to reach him as the radiation protocols had kicked in and shut them out of the lab. Peter had come to with his uncle hovering over him, hands patting down his changed body for injury.

Ben had circumvented the safety protocols before the radiation could be vented and taken a full dose. He had gotten Peter clear, but the damage had already been done. He was bedridden in hours and interred to cryo within a day.

Peter was responsible for his uncle’s sickness, for taking resources from his already struggling Vault. He would fix things somehow. He would pay his debts.

* * *

The bag he was taking with him was on the small side, barely enough for some food, water, bandages, and a single Stimpak incase he became injured. He couldn’t take from the Vault; he already felt too much like a burden. The bag went over one shoulder and sat against his back, a heavy anchor for its miniscule size. His locker beneath the Vault door was empty minus a lab coat and a few clean air filters.  Absently, Peter tucked his journal and pen into the front of his suit and turned to leave.

“Peter, I was looking at your report and I had an idea on how we could — Peter?” Aunt May paused in the doorway and peered at him. Her brown hair was tucked up in a messy bun, an attempt to keep it out of her way as she prepared reports and assigned tasks. She was a hands-on Overseer and preferred to be among the Vault Dwellers rather than cooped up in her office. She took in his red and blue hazmat suit, a gift from she and his uncle years ago, and the strap of the bag across his chest.

May carefully set her clipboard down and held out her open palms.

“Peter, sweetheart, where are you going?” She knew the answer but hoped he would contradict her.

“I have to do something, Aunt May.” He ground his teeth together and clenched the strap of the bag. It creaked under his fingers. “Uncle Ben… Not just him, but this whole Vault. You and I both know that things aren’t as good as they seem. People are tired, hungry, and sick. The power barely works, and there are more radiation leaks every day. There hasn’t even been a baby in four years.

“We’re dying. And… and part of that is my fault.”

May’s hands dropped to her sides. She looked crushed. This wasn’t a conversation they’d been able to finish, though both sides had made attempts over the years. Peter’s guilt had grown with every long-term infirmary stay and every request for increased rations. His uncle had been a linchpin holding the Vault together, and on her own May was struggling to keep things running. She knew it, he knew it; everyone in the Vault knew it but no one was cruel enough to say it. If something didn’t change, and soon, there would be no future generations to fill the Vault; there’d only be skeletons and unanswered questions.

“Peter… You _know_ what happened to Ben wasn’t your fault. I’ve told you that, everyone had told you that. But you’re so stubborn! Look, why don’t we — “

“I’m going outside the Vault and I’m going to find someone or something that can help us. I won’t come back until I do.” Peter had an entire speech rehearsed. He knew how May felt and knew the arguments she’d make towards keeping him in the Vault. He was prepared for this fight.

But, she merely sighed and rubbed her eyes behind her glasses. “Stubborn,” she muttered. “Like Ben, and like _them_.”

His parents, she meant.

“Do I need to crawl out an air duct or…?” Please no, he wasn’t looking forward to that. He was nimble and stuck to just about every surface imaginable, but he really wasn’t looking to repeat his teenage years.

May rolled her eyes and grabbed Peter by the back of the neck. She hauled him into a hug, giving an extra squeeze before they parted. Neither mentioned her wet eyes. “I’ve written you into the Vault door permissions so you can come and go. And, I’d like to add, that I did this years ago. _You_ ,” she tapped him on the nose as they walked through the halls, “never thought to ask.”

Peter made a strangled sound but didn’t comment. The back of the Vault door loomed above them, impossibly large and yellow.

“Do you even have a plan?” The look May gave him was expectant and Peter gave a sheepish grin.

“I mean, I did some research. We need power cores and shielding, supplies for the hydroponics lab, base metals for R&D and maintenance — oh! And we need — “

“But do you have any idea where you’re going.”

Peter flushed and took a few more steps towards the door, nudging the swinging entrance gate with his hip. The expandable scaffolding ramp clattered under his boots. “We’re in what was once Queens, right? So if I can make it to Manhattan — “

“If?”

“Uh, um, I mean, _when_ I make it to Manhattan, hah…” Right, wording here. Think positive! “ _When_ I make it to Manhattan I’ll head to the Stark Industries tower.”

“Peter,” May murmured and stroked his hair. Her hand was shaking. “You don’t even know if Stark Industries survived the bombs. What if it’s gone? You have no idea what else is out there. A wild goose chase won’t get us anything.” And she might lose him like Ben, is what went unsaid.

“I did some digging into the old shipping manifests from when the Vault was completed. There are a bunch of warehouses and manufacturers circling the Tower that supplied the Vault when it was built. If the Tower is gone I can check into those and, at the very least, bring back some kind of plan for future scavenging.” He took a breath before darting in for a quick hug, then he moved away to the end of the ramp and stared at his aunt expectantly. “I can do this. I _need_ to do this.”

It took her a moment, and Peter could see the tears threatening to spill over, but she nodded and stepped up to the control panel to one side. She tugged the plug from the Pip-boy around her left wrist, the exact same model that Peter sported, and connected it to the console. She tapped her Pip-boy a few times and yellow warning lights began to flash.

Over the sound of the warning klaxons she said, “I love you, be safe.”

Peter managed to choke out the same and darted out the Vault door the minute it cracked open. He didn’t bother to hide his tears then.

* * *

Outside the Vault was… Dead. But alive? Wait, that didn’t make sense…

Everything looked run down and one stiff breeze away from collapsing entirely. But the grass — and wow, actual grass, holy shit — and the trees were vibrant; they grew everywhere, even popping up from between cracked asphalt and paving stones. There were vines wrapped around light poles and flowers growing —

Out of the mass of skeletal bodies piled up outside the Vault entrance.

Oh.

Right. Only a select few had been invited to the Vault, leaving the rest of the populace to weather the coming nuclear apocalypse on their own. Peter stopped counting bodies after twenty, instead choosing to keep his eyes on the middle distance. His Pip-boy had a built-in map of the area that updated as he travelled. He could put in waypoints and notes for later and, when he eventually returned home, transfer that data onto the rest of the Vault residents for future use.

For now, he checked his bearings and headed North. The Vault had been built in a subway station in Jackson Heights, buried beneath streets and apartment blocks. It was one of the largest constructed in New York — at least that’s what Peter had been taught during his school days — and housed the brightest scientific minds of the pre-war age second only to the Vault at Stark Industries Tower. SI had been the parent company of Vault-Tec, which obviously meant that they had the foremost of technology when building their Vault. Peter’s had benefited by their close locations in receiving a number of upgrades that other Vaults hadn’t even heard of before the bombings.

Peter traversed the streets for a time, stopping to actually smell flowers and touch leaves, though he couldn’t feel a lot through his gloves. This was his first time experiencing nature and he wanted to enjoy it. But then time got away from him and he realized that the sun was beginning to set and he hadn’t found anywhere to set up for the night.

“Shit,” he muttered. His map said he was barely an hour away on clear streets, but the rubble and broken vehicles made for unexpected detours. Peter needed to make up lost ground and find somewhere to sleep.

The light was dimming and he was alone in a dead city. Or, a mostly dead city? He wasn’t sure how much of the population had survived and propagated in the last two hundred years. For all Peter knew, there was a thriving community just around the corner.

Checking his map carefully he padded down the street. Peter would peek into the cars he passed and slowly the sight of white bone and rusted metal became less shocking. These people had been dead a long time. He came to an intersection where, on two sides, wooden barriers had been erected to block off the street entrances. Cars had been dragged to create a funnel towards closed doors on either street, surrounded by piled up garbage and….meat?

Peter squinted and padded closer, sniffing the air. It smelled, ugh, wait —  

His custom suit had a hood and mask attached separately and he took a moment to throw back the hood and carefully unlatch the mask. The Pip-boy on his wrist said that the air quality was actually pretty good and that overall the radiation was fairly normal. He would be safe without the mask for a while.

Tugging off the red material, Peter closed the valve to the respirator and tucked the whole thing away into a pocket on his belt. Then he paused and look in a few deep lungfuls of surface air.

Then promptly coughed at the awful, rancid smell.

It turned out that what he had been staring at was indeed meat, though he honestly didn’t know what kind. The bags, in various sizes, were held together with some kind of netting and dripped in thick, viscous droplets to the pavement. Some were set up in shopping carts, clustered together and piled high, while others hung from light posts like gory decorations. _‘Which,’_ Peter thought absently, ‘ _is exactly what they might be…_ ’

With that horrifying thought occupying the back of his skull Peter slipped past the carts and crushed vehicles to one of the barricades. This one didn’t have a door attached — though there were hinges with splintered pieces of wood clinging to them — and he slipped through the opening and into the dark street beyond. His map said to go this way; it was the most direct route to the river and across. If he followed this route as closely as he could, it would take him along the border between Sunnyside and Astoria. He’d almost cleared through the borough of Woodside, even with his initial detours.

The street here was dark and cramped. Buildings to either side of him were falling down, storefronts little more than hollow facades and crumbling brickwork. He wondered what life had been like, all those years ago. Had this been a busy street? Were these popular businesses in their time? The Vault really only had a commissary to sell things, not counting the cafeteria or that one guy who sold chems — though, realistically, everyone turned a blind eye to the latter.

Peter hopped over a loose barricade of scrap metal, managing to stick to a crumpled car by his fingertips and crawl above the tetanus-riddled detritus. There was light ahead, flickering like fire. Did this mean people were ahead? What were they like?

He thought back to the bags of rancid meat at the entrance and the sprays of gore along the road. Maybe he shouldn’t stop for a visit; if they were the same people who decorated they might not be great hosts.

A snuffling caught his attention and Peter paused, hands outstretched for balance. He stood straight slowly and carefully. Just across the junction ahead, another intersection, he could see something moving. It was short and wide, looking green of all things. Peter shuffled closer, hesitant though his curiosity was burning within him.

He lifted up onto the tips of his toes and peered over another car to catch a better look.

The creature looked vaguely like a dog, but only if you really had no idea what a dog looked like and were entirely guessing. Its snout was rippled and blunt, lips a bright pink against the dark green of its skin. Wickedly sharp and haphazardly grown fangs protruded from its muzzle at every angle, disappearing as a long purplish tongue escaped its maw to lick at something. The head was squat and squarelike, similar to its overall shape. There wasn’t much of a neck, though it tapered slightly into a pair of broad, bulky shoulders that rippled with muscle. The arms were turned forward a bit, like a picture of a bulldog he’d seen once when they’d reviewed past species in biology. The hind legs were lower and thicker than the front ones, though they too ended in massive paws with long claws.

A tiny tail, hairless and green, wiggled on its behind.

“H-hey, buddy. Whatcha got there?” Peter had never met a dog before; he’d always wanted a pet but they ate up too many resources. There was a clowder of feral rad-cats that lived in the Vault, but they weren’t exactly pets. But this was his chance to see, first hand, what a dog was like. Maybe he could even pet it?

Peter eked around the corner of the vehicle to the front of the animal and crouched down to approximately eye level. This dog was pretty big, and it had its head down, ripping into something on the pavement. Holding out a gloved hand seemed logical, a gesture of good will, and Peter focused on not wiggling his fingers.

“You okay there, boy? Girl? Uh, do dogs even have sexes anymore? Man, I’m screwing this up. Hey — “

The dog’s head snapped up. Small, beady eyes peered out at him from under a furrowed and hairless brow. The irises were a stunning, iridescent yellow-green that flashed in the darkness. Its maw opened and its muzzle drew back in a snarl. From here, Peter could truly appreciate the size of those fangs. He expected the beast to finish opening its maw in a quick second, but it continued long after it, feasibly, should have run out of jaw. The dog’s mouth bisected its head from snout to shoulder in a wide, toothy, and gaping maw. Rows upon rows of teeth lined its mouth and even in the dimming light Peter could see flashes of cloth stuck to the interior teeth.

“Umm, hoo boy, Okay, so, I’m just going to leave you to your, uh, dinner. So —” Peter shuffled backwards, trying not to bolt as the dog’s muzzle quivered and a low rumble began from its chest. He fumbled for the car, trying to support his body as his knees began to quiver. Oh god, this wasn’t what he had expected at all. This thing could literally snap him in half with one bite.

Peter’s foot slipped on some debris on his next blind step backwards; broken asphalt crunched under his feel, parting and shifting as his body weight bore down. His center of balance shifted and without a thought, Peter’s right hand shot out to slap down on the dilapidated car. His powers activated as his fight-or-flight reflexes kicked in and the hand stuck fast to the metal, anchoring his body through the glove. The young mutant’s legs flailed for purchase and he found it on the misshapen beast’s face. He shoved up wiry frame up and away with a boot to the creature’s nose.

He flipped, spinning, and hit the top of the car only to roll off the other side. He needed to get away from this thing! Upon hitting the ground Peter’s feet were already moving, scrambling and stumbling as he bolted back the way he’d come.

But the howl, a wretched, echoing thing, stopped him dead. His ears rang and Peter clapped both hands over them with a cry. What kind of sound was that? How could something living even make such a pitch?!

He peeked under one arm and stared at the beast. Its head was thrown back, maw stretched wide as it bellowed its horrible discordant wail. The impossibly loud sound echoed in the street, bouncing back and forth, each time more distorted than the last until, finally, it faded into sudden silence.

Peter opened his eyes, not realizing he’d closed them, and stared at the beast behind him. His ears rang in the absence of sound. He shook his head, blinking, only to instinctually duck to the left as every one of his senses screamed.

The hound’s jaws snapped shut over empty air, just as Peter dodged away. The scent of rancid meat wafted after it and once again, Peter gagged.

He swore and, without stopping to consider it, threw his right fist forward. His knuckles caught the thing in the temple and he felt something crunch and give way. It lurched from Peter with a garbled whine and blood began to trickle from its mouth.

Taking the opportunity presented Peter turned and scrambled away. The entrance to the street was too far away, especially with the rubble and how quick the beast turned out to be. He’d never make it like this. He needed somewhere else to go; somewhere to hide until he could make a safe break for it. The young man cast about for a second, feet still propelling him forward, and almost ran past it.

Like many of the places he’d travelled through, this street had once been populated by businesses. Two-hundred or so years later and there wasn’t much left by way of identifying factors. There had been glass in the open window frames once, but it had been shattered and blow away in storms years after the fall. He could, at a quick glance, still see the remnants of advertisements, banners, and flags that previously decorated the storefronts. The one he had stopped in front of had a particularly large banner in faded red proclaiming a SALE! The upper floor had caved in at some point and filled the majority of the first floor, but beneath a half-rotted door was a dark opening that led inside.

Chances were, that opening led to something’s lair.

Chances were, that the mutated dog-beast-thing was going to eat him if he didn’t at least give it a try.

So Peter dove into the tunnel carved into the rubble. He pushed aside broken furniture and bricks, ducking under rusting sheet metal that had, probably, been a display shelf once upon a time. He was thankful, for once, that he’d never quick grown as broad as the other boys. As it was, this was a tight fit. More than once he could feel the tug of something catching his suit and hoped there weren’t any tears.

He crawled as far as he could and found a hollowed out recess set behind the counter. A register lay on its side, pre-war cash spilling out in a pile. Beside it on a rotting bedspread was a long-dead corpse. Gore decorated one wall above a name Peter couldn’t make out, painted in blood.

There were no other exits.

Shit.

Trying to catch his breath Peter looked back to the entrance of the tunnel to find the beast staring at him with intense yellow eyes. It snarled and gnashed its teeth. One massive paw scratched at the rubble around the tunnel mouth and while it managed to pull a bit loose, there was no way it could fit its massive form in after Peter.

So that meant he was safe; for now, at least.

Frustrated at losing its dinner, the hound threw back its head and coughed out three short barks. It was like those old movies they used to watch in bio, like how velociraptors had communicated with each other while they hunted. Dread pooled in Peter’s stomach at the thought and he swallowed. What if it wasn’t alone? What if there were smaller hounds that _could_ get into the tunnel?

Shit. Shit shit shit. He was so _screwed_.

“Huh?!”

Peter jumped so high he slammed his head against the ceiling and only just covered his mouth to keep from yelping. Immediately his eyes watered and he hunched over with one hand covering the spot now radiating pain.

“What do?!”

 _‘Is that a person? Oh shit, what if the hound saw them? They were gonna get mauled!’_ But there wasn’t anything Peter could do from in here. If there was someone out there and the hound realized, there was a chance it would go after easier, more accessible prey rather than the cornered spider-boy that couldn’t escape.

“Stoopid dog! Was sleeping! Argh!”

There was a _thud_ before the snarling at the tunnel mouth cut off, quickly followed by a yelp and pained whimpering.

 _‘What the hell?’_ Peter crouched further to get a better look. The tunnel travelled on an incline to the street, and from the slightly lower vantage point he could see the hulking green hound better. Along with a very large, very green, pair of feet. They were by far the largest feet Peter had ever seen. There was no way, not a chance, that this person could buy shoes off the rack. They were definitely custom-only feet. Which made sense actually, since everything post-war was custom made.

This guy though — or girl? He honestly had no idea — had definitely DIY’d their shoes. Straps of leather wrapped the feet, ankles, and calves with rusty-looking plates of sheet metal strapped to the shins as some kind of makeshift armour. It looked awful and horrible uncomfortable. More importantly, even from where Peter was a good six feet away, he got the distinct impression that those feet smelled like overly ripe cheese — and not the tasty kind.

Eugh.

 _‘Wait,’_ Peter thought, _‘if that guy wasn’t afraid of the dog, then —_

_‘Shit.’_

“Eat now — stoopid dog!”

The feet shuffled to face away and, still throwing hateful looks Peter’s way, the dog followed its master away.

Though they didn’t get far.

A shot rang out, splitting the quiet of the street. The large, wrapped feet stumbled back into view from where they'd disappeared to Peter's left. Globules of dark, viscous liquid splattered against the ground and slid down the creatures green calf. There was another shot and this time the feet skidded on the pavement and tangled together.

The body dropped and immediately a dark pool began to form around it. Slowly, the blood began to trickle down the incline towards Peter. Slowly. Slowly. Crawling.

Blood rushed in peters ears. The world slowed until he felt like each breath was gelatin thick in his lungs. He pressed back against the wall of the crevice and dug his fingers into the wooden counter. The blood seemed to be endless as it carves its way down the tunnel to Peter. It soaked into the knee of his pants, blossoming outwards in a dark stain.

It smelled hot and metallic, somehow sour.

Not for the first time Peter wished his mutation hadn't come with a sharper nose.

 _'Oh god, ohgodohgodohgod,_ _what was going on?’_ That thing, that _guy_ had just — just been shot! He — was it even a he? — was dead and his blood was slowly filling the space around Peter. He felt painted in it.

His stomach clenched and flexed and he just barely kept from retching.

There was another shot, this time from right outside Peter's hiding spot. He heard the snarls of a dog, quickly cut off into a wet gurgle. An excited _'whoop!’_ before the voice moved on. Peter could still hear them though, speaking lowly to themselves as they continued to travel.

They began whistling a cheery tune. Gunshots and screams followed quickly after. Peter closed his eyes and tried to breathe.

Time passed in a blur of distant sound. Angry shouts and threats were swiftly replaced by wails and sobbing. Then silence, eventually.

“What the fuck is happening?” Peter's voice shook and cracked. He bit his hand through his glove. He sucked air through his teeth and focused to keep from completely hyperventilating. The whistling was just on the edge of his hearing now, fading slowly.

He waited until his breathing had calmed and the silence outside persisted before he began making his way free.

The creature’s blood had gathered and filled the central canal of the tunnel, blackening the stone. Peter bit his lip and kept his whimpers quiet as he slogged through it towards the entrance. The body was partially blocking the hole; giant, green, and reeking. Not for the first time, Peter was thankful for his mutation. With his enhanced strength he shoved until the corpse was clear of the entrance, then scrambled up and over it into fading daylight.

When he had first entered this street it had been dirty and cluttered. But there hadn’t been any fresh life there. The rotting bags of meat and a few displaced limbs, sure, but nothing that had been alive recently. Now, there was bodies — so _many_ bodies. Some lay in clumps, propped up together. Others were flat to the ground or sprawled in a heap of twisted — sometimes amputated — limbs.

Bile rose in Peter’s throat and he choked it back, barely.

He skittered over the bodies and through the far end of the street while doing his best to avoid the puddles of brackish blood. His suit was already soaked through in places and it stuck to him. The street beyond was empty of life and the further he travelled the fewer signs of life there were. Peter didn’t stop until he came to the waterfront and night had fallen.

He was sore, exhausted, and really really scared. The surface was more screwed up than he could have ever expected. How was he going to get to Stark Tower if he couldn’t even go a few boroughs over without getting ambushed and nearly eaten? Well, probably eaten, he wasn’t sure, but probably…

The water in the river was dark, dappled in moonlight and starshine, oddly beautiful considering what the land looked like. Peter pointedly ignored the bobbing shapes in the water, conscious of what he could potentially see and very sure his already shakes psyche wouldn’t handle it well.

He still had to figure out where he could semi-safely crash for the night; he didn’t know the area or the dangers. After his encounter with the green men and their dogs Peter hadn’t encountered any more threats on his way to the waterfront. He was nearly to the — he checked his map — Queens Midtown Tunnel, but maybe travelling the way he had was the reason (gratuitous panicked skittering). It didn’t really matter at that moment, but it was a thought for later.

He’d expected the world outside the Vault to be a complete deadzone. No power, no running water, no creature comforts. But there was a trail of lights just down the road at the beginning of the tunnel that proved otherwise. They looked like string lights, the big ones that someone had smuggled in during the initial build and had stayed around for important events like some kind of reminder of better times. They weren’t even coloured lights, just boring old white bulbs; though a few of them were getting yellow with age, and maybe dust? He wasn’t sure, but they probably weren’t sanitary to have in the kitchen.

These ones looked even worse, though that may have had to do with being outside for however long. Peter walked the two dozen feet to the entrance of the tunnel and inspected it. There was a sign to the right of the entrance in mismatched marquee lettering.

“‘Sister Margaret’s ahead, no mutants, no Children,’ huh.” The name made sense, he guessed. No mutants? Ouch, his feelings. Though unless he was doused in radiation no one would ever know that Peter wasn’t strictly base-human. The children part though… who brought kids to a bar? The Vault pub was strictly age restricted and no fiddling with your Pip-boy would get you through the doors — as if everyone didn’t already know you. “The lights are on...so I guess this is as good a spot as any?”

The tunnel was surprisingly clear of debris as he padded down the concrete. As he followed the lights Peter found some blocades off to the side with crudely drawn pictures in bright colours. They mostly featured a brown-haired man with thick black glasses and a perpetual frown. ‘Weasel says to pay your tab,’ ‘Weasel says don’t be a fucking asshole,’ ‘Weasel says that pedos get ledos,’ — whatever that last one meant.

The pictures of ‘Weasel’ were sometimes accompanied by another figure in red and black, usually surrounded by blood — Peter assumed the red splotches were blood — and bodies with X’s for eyes. An enforcer maybe? A bodyguard? He had no idea how the social structure out here worked so it was possible.

The lights eventually coalesced into a building sat right in the middle of the tunnel. Well, it looked more like a bunch of planks nailed haphazardly together but who was Peter to judge? He lived in a two-hundred plus year old, rusting, radioactive tin can. But this place was well lit and there was the murmur of music and voices from within. So that could be a good thing. Or a terribly bad thing. He didn’t know quite yet, but this was his first option for spending the night. Maybe they rented beds?

Steeling himself Peter climbed the steps out front and pushed open the bright red door.

Inside was a cacophony of light, sound, and smell. It was like every unwashed body in fifty kilometers had gathered at this one point to contest who reeked the worst. Some of the people looked like they’d rolled in mud, or something else brown coloured. Some of them looked like they’d painted their bodies in blood. A few of the patrons were wearing metal breastplates and shoulder pads while others...well, to say they were wearing clothes would be generous.

After a moment of standing in the doorway and staring like an idiot, Peter stepped inside. The door slammed shut behind him and he jumped, yelping. Thankfully he didn’t end up on the ceiling, but his wrists did burble a bit of webbing. He turned to stare at the — man? — who had slammed the door and was met with a mouthful of black teeth and bruised skin. Dear god, he reeked like piss and rot.

Peter skittered away, hunched, and aimed for the bar. That was probably his best bet at getting some information and a place to sleep. If he was lucky, maybe he wouldn’t even have to share a room! Oh god, what if he couldn’t afford it. What if —

A hand clamped down on Peter’s right bicep and he yelped in pain. The guy’s fingers were like pointy steel! He was turned roughly and pulled in close. All he could smell was the guy’s breath; like rotting fish and, yep, piss.

“Where ya goin’ pretty? Gotta pay the toll! It’s a ‘toll road,’ can’t let ya go for free!” He laughed loudly and a few onlookers joined in. “C’mon, one-hundred caps and I’ll let you walk away. First time discount!” He grinned again and Peter did his level best not to gag.

“L-look, mister. I don’t have that kind of money. And, I mean, I didn’t know there was a toll or anything. I’m new here, right?” Peter tried very hard not to wince at the pressure around his arm. He was stronger than this guy, easily, but he didn’t want to fight anyone. Besides, shrugging off a grip like that wouldn’t be easy to miss.

“No money?! You came to Weasel’s without money?” He snickered, honest to god, and shared another laugh with his friends. “You’re lucky I’m a nice guy and you ain’t too bad to look at. Kinda cute.” He rubbed a dirty knuckle against Peter’s cheek and Peter jerked back. “Hey now, none of that. Gotta pay the toll, remember? So what’s it gonna be? Shirts or skins, pretty.”

“W-what? I don’t — “

“He means,” a new voice spoke up from behind Peter’s left shoulder and he jumped, “that you pay him with your suit or your ass. What are you gonna choose?”

Peter craned his neck to look left and froze. The man who had spoken was taller than him by a good six inches and broader by at least that much. He wore a leather suit in black and red, belts and pockets circling his hips and thighs. There were two swords strapped to his back and a number of guns holstered beside wicked looking knives. He wore a mask, black on red with two white eyes. It was oddly expressive. He looked curious, like his eyebrows were raised. The bottom had been pulled up to his nose and Peter couldn’t help but stare.

In the Vault there had been a number of mutations. Some were hereditary, passed down each generation and amplified with science, some spontaneous. Peter’s mutation was a combination of his parents’ research and his own run-ins with radiation. Like some other Vault-dwellers, Peter’s mutation wasn’t always visible, but for a few their mutation was at least skin deep. Ghouls, humans who resembled pre-war zombies, made up at least a fifth of the Vault population.

Every generation there were people who couldn’t handle the mutations. Usually the ill effects started in the womb and they didn’t last long after birth, but in some cases they would survive for years before their health began to decline. At the beginning of the Vault, and the first wave of mutations, several residents hadn’t been able to physically or mentally cope with the severe changes they went under. Some ended their own lives, and Peter couldn’t really blame them — it was their choice after all. In other cases the degradation of the physical self reflected on their mental being and people who were once bright and eager became slavering beasts. They went insane and only rage was left. There was an attempt to find some kind of cure, but after enough CAT scans it was determined that these people weren’t just ill, their brains were truly rotted.

Every year they held a memorial for those lost to the war, and the first wave of ghouls to suffer from it were given respects.

But in his two and a half decades, Peter hadn’t ever seen a ghoul like this.

His skin didn’t look like old, wet cardboard that had been soaked, dried, soaked, and dried once more just to be thorough. His scars didn’t look old and worn like leather — they were pink and dark red, shiny like fresh marks. And they _moved_. It was slow in some places, lightning quick in others, and Peter assessed that it was maybe his own mutation that let him even see it, but the man’s scars were definitely shifting as he watched. He was like a living rorschach painting, dizzying and ever changing.

The snap of fingers had Peter jumping and looking up from the twisted scar tissue of the newcomer’s mouth and into the expressive white eyes.

“My eyes are up here, baby boy.”

“Shit, i'm, sorry mister.” Aww crap, his voice broke. He wasn’t a pre-teen anymore, that totally wasn’t fair.

The man snorted but turned his attention to the other one who held Peter’s arm. “Alright, Greg, fun’s over. You know the rules.”

‘Greg’ huffed but didn’t release Peter’s arm. He squeezed, and Peter tried to keep from whimpering, and tugged the younger man closer. “Gotta pay the toll, DP. Besides, ain’t see a pretty face like this one every day. Nice and fresh. Bet his ass is just as young.”

It was interesting to watch the newcomer — DP — when he smiled. The corners of his mouth quirked, lips stretching wide in a closed-mouth grin, before splitting wide in a show of blindingly white, sharp teeth. “Rules,” he said in a soft growl. “We ain’t makin’ ‘em for shits and giggles. Last chance to give this kid a newcomer’s welcome as prescribed.”

Greg didn’t immediately let go and Peter’s sixth sense, his spider sense, began screaming. He threw himself backwards against Greg’s grip in time to see the full effect of DP’s enforcement. The knife that had been strapped to his right thigh was free, flashing as it twirled across gloved fingers. And then it was plunging into Greg’s belly, just above his belt. Once. Twice. Three times. Then a fourth.

Then DP flipped the blade, serrated side up, and began to saw his way up Greg’s torso, leaning in and gripping the dying man’s shoulder with one hand for leverage. The sounds were horrible and wet. There was the soft pop of snapping ligaments and tendons, the wet crunch of cartilage giving way, and the horribly long lasting splatter of innards being displaced onto dirty concrete.

Another pair of hands caught Peter’s shoulders and pulled him away from the scene but his eyes were locked onto the gory mess of Greg’s ruined torso.

The corpse didn’t fall until DP had made his way up to Greg’s clavicle. He only stopped at the grinding of steel on bone and, presumably, his blade had gotten stuck. The madman huffed and let go, stepping back with a flourish as the body went crashing to the ground.

The bar was oddly silent around them, even the music had been muted.

DP twirled to face Peter and the grin on his lips was terrifying.

“Welcome to Sister Margaret’s, enjoy your stay.” A hot, wet hand patted one of Peter’s cheeks and then DP was sailing on past as though he hadn’t just gutted a man for breaking a house rule.

Peter thought he was going to be sick.

He was right.

 

* * *

 

 

The hands that had pulled him free of Greg’s death belonged to a dark-skinned woman named Domino. Her head was ringed with thick, springy black curls only held back by the valiant efforts of a pair of goggles atop her head. Her left eye was lighter than the other, like honeyed gold, and the skin around it was discoloured and pale. She was somewhere between the two extremes of dress he had observed upon entering the bar; tight black leather encased her whole body, minus a low zipper that showed off impressive cleavage. She had nearly as many weapons tied to as many straps as DP had, though all of hers were clean and holstered.

She sat with Peter while he emptied his stomach off the porch out front and stroked his hair through the dry heaves. She had even given him a bottle of somewhat dirty water to wash his mouth out with after. Domino was, essentially, an angel in leather.

“Most people don’t get that kind of show on their first visit.” Her voice was amused and dry. Peter knew in his gut that she was someone he would like. “Usually the fun stuff doesn’t happen until after a few drinks and Weasel starts asking for caps.”

“Fun stuff?” Yup, there was that squeak again. Peter coughed. “How was any of that fun?!”

She chuckled and patted his head. “You’re definitely new meat. How the hell have you survived this long?” Domino took a moment then to check him over and her eyes paused at his left wrist.

Instinctually, Peter tried to cover his Pip-boy with his hand, but it was no use. The stupid thing was huge and clunky, even with all the upgrades Ned had managed. They just didn’t have the materials for a full overhaul.

“Ah, that makes sense then. You’re a Vaultie.” She nodded as if that explained everything. “No wonder you look like a red-stag caught in the headlights. You never been topside before?”

“N-no…” He was hesitant to admit it, but she had him pegged. Was it that obvious?

“Look, kid — “

“Peter. I’m not a kid.” She raised one eyebrow and he glowered. “I’m not! I might even be older than you!”

Domino snorted, quickly covering her mouth with a hand. She coughed and waved it off. “I mean, sure, if you really want to believe that, go ahead. We don’t exactly have a drinking age like they did pre-war, so knock yourself out.”

“I’m almost twenty-seven,” Peter groused, hunkering down and glaring at her. It wasn’t his fault that he looked young. He’d even tried to grow facial hair before a vote had gone out to the residents and, nearly unanimously, they’d agreed that he should shave. “You can’t be over thirty either.” He squinted at her, taking in Domino’s smooth cheeks and forehead. “You don’t even have a wrinkle! That’s insane.”

She snorted a laughed and waved a hand in his face, causing Peter to jerk back. “Kid, I’m definitely twice your age.” Her smile dropped then, and she glanced around. They were the only people out front, and the crowd inside was rowdy. “You look like you can keep a secret, even with that voice and scrawny body.”

Peter spluttered but Domino talked over his protests. “I’m not technically human, so I don’t age like one.” She shrugged at his surprised expression and looked at her fingers, admiring the stitching in the leather.

“Neither am I.”

Dom looked up at him and raised a brow.

“Err, human. I mean, not completely? My Vault, out in Queens, we’re a science based Vault. I guess they got together a bunch of biologists and geneticists before the bombing and crammed them all in. So we all just kinda kept working on their original tasks.” Peter shrugged. Genome sequencing and catalyst radiology treatments were everyday tasks for him. But out here, he was guessing that people didn’t have access to the same kind of technology as he did. “My parents were geneticists; they were trying to made humans evolve faster and to a specific criteria. Their parents did the same, and their parents… So I’m basically the result of several generations of eugenics?”

“And how does that not make you human? You just said they were trying to make humanity evolve, but that doesn’t make you less human.” She asked at him and smirked, as though she’d won their tiny argument.

Peter shot her in the face with his webbing.

Domino was so surprised she yelped, flailed, and pitched backwards off the porch to the concrete below.

“Shit! Ohmygod I’m so sorry!” Peter scrambled down after her and pulled her up with one hand. He used the other to carefully remove the webbing, acutely aware of the knife she had pulled that was resting against his belly. “I just, I just wanted to show off a little, I totally didn’t mean to scare you like that!”

A leather clad hand whapped Peter across the back of the head and he yelped.

“That’s for messing up Dom’s hair.” DP shook a finger at him from the raised porch. He had arrived sometime between Dom sprawling on the pavement and Peter launching himself in for a rescue, and was now lounging on his stomach, chin propped up on one hand. “Didja really have to spill the beans right away, Dom? He’s a real cutie, but pretty faces aren’t everything.”

“Like you’re one to talk, Wade.”

 _Wade?_ Peter’s screwed up in confusion and he looked back and forth between the two. _Who’s Wade? I thought his name was DP?_

“Ouch, I’m that easy to read right?”

“Like a window without glass.” Dom chucked Peter under the chin before pushing him towards where DP — Wade? — was lounging. The other man spun to his feet and pulled Peter up. His hand lingered on Peter’s for a little longer than necessary, but he didn’t make any more comments.

Domino hopped up of her own accord and Peter was sufficiently impressed.

“Right! Okay, so, what do we call you, baby boy? Because I already know what I want you to call _me_ , but I figure I’d give you a chance to put in a suggestion for your pet name.” DP grinned widely and dodged Domino’s swat without looking. “If it’s a shitty name though, I have the right to veto it.”

“Umm… Peter? Uh, wait, yeah, my name’s Peter, Peter Parker.”

“Peter Peter Parker? Wow, your parents are really bad at this whole naming thing. Really unimaginative.”

Scoffing, Domino pushed DP back towards the front door of the bar. “You’re name’s Wade Winston WIlson, do you really get to talk?”

Wade threw his hands up and what could only be described as a pained wail escaped him. “Dom! You’ve ruined the mystique! How could you do that to me, your best pal in the whole wide world?!”

“Yeah, yeah, go cry to Weasel about it.” She shoved open the front door, grabbed Peter by the wrist, and tugged him along. “C’mon, kid. Time to meet Weasel.”

Peter couldn’t do more than follow. Wade trailed behind them singing along under his breath and shimmying to some unheard music.

The guy was a little weird — and violent — but he didn’t seem too bad?

Domino pulled him through the crowd and they parted like a wave before her. He wasn’t sure if it was fear — of her or Wade — or something else.

A woman wearing a tattered gas mask stood violently from her seat and sent her chair rocketing back into Domino’s path, she twirled, caught Peter’s other hand, lifted him bodily, and stepped up onto the chair before returning them to the ground. She didn’t even blink.

Wade got his foot stuck under one of the legs and went crashing to the ground in a cacophony of cussing.

Huh.

There was a man behind the bar. He looked familiar and it took Peter a moment to realize that he was the man from the pictures painted outside. Weasel, he guessed, was a little taller than Peter. His hair was shoulder length and curling, surprisingly clean given the state of everyone else in the bar. The thick black framed glasses were slipping down his nose but he ignored them in favour of staring Peter down.

Without asking he reached beneath the counter and slid a drink over to Domino: it glowed a bright, unnatural shade of blue and had a little paper umbrella stuck in the top. She took the drink with a pleased hum and sipped.

“So good to me, Weasel.”

“Yeah yeah, like you’d ever pay anyway.” Weasel’s complaint was obviously a routine between them as Domino smiled and winked at him.

Peter, oh so socially gifted, tried to take a seat twice, having slipped off the chair the first time. Cheeks flaming he finally managed to stick to the worn seat and set his palms on the, slightly sticky, bar top. His skin was crawling under Weasel's intense stare. Was there something on his face? He rubbed at one cheek just in case.

“Uh, h-hi? Um, I'm Peter. You're, ah, you're Mr. Weasel?” There was that prepubescent squeak to his voice again, shit. Peter coughed and drummed his fingers on the scarred wooden bar. “Pleased to meet you uh, I guess.” He gave a quick glance around. “Nice, uh, place? Uh, bar — right, bar — you have here. Very um, cozy?”

As Peter word-vomited from nervousness Weasel's one eyebrow steadily climbed upwards into his hairline. When it reached its peak the second rose to meet the first until he was staring pointedly at the younger man over his glasses.

“Wade,” Weasel drawled, “where did you get this kid? A nursery?”

Feeling like his face was hot enough to burst into flame, Peter covered his face with his hands and groaned.

Dom chuckled to his side, obnoxiously slurping her drink.

“Pfft, yeah, right, like me of all people would ransack a nursery. Just because you’re old and crotchety doesn’t mean you gotta hate on us youngins, Weas’.” A warm weight appeared on Peter’s right shoulder, pressing down.

Peter peeked out from between his fingers to see Wade’s cheek close to his own. Somehow the man managed to wink at him through the mark and, honest to Tesla, the white of his mask’s eye mimicked it perfectly. Seriously, was the suit alive? Was it nanotech? Maybe he could ask to study it later? Wait, no, was that too much? Maybe he should like, —

A finger tapped the tip of Peter’s nose and he jumped. Wade was grinning and did it again for good measure.

“I gotta deal for ya.” He paused, cocked his head to the side. “Well, technically Weasel runs the deals. He’s the brains of the operation here; I’m just the customer service expert.” Wade’s grin was toothy, and a little manic, but Peter couldn’t help but smile back. “Aww, lookit that, Dom, he’s such a cutie.”

This time Peter dodged the finger, catching it in his hand, and swiftly tapped Wade on his own nose. The man snorted and laughed loudly, throwing his head back. His entire body shook as he guffawed. Peter felt oddly endeared to have such a reaction. He’d known these people ten minutes and they’d already saved his life — and his ass — , given him a rundown of their little corner of the world, and treated him like one of their own. He knew, at the forefront of his thoughts, that they could just as easily be playing a longer game than his now dead attacker, but his extra sense — named his ‘Spidey Sense’ as per Ned and MJ — was silent.

Well, it was ringing in the back of his head, but that had more to do with where he was than who he was standing with.

Peter knew, somehow, that he was safe with these three weirdos. Somehow.

“What kind of deal? Because honestly, that last guy was apparently giving me the bargain of a lifetime.”

The wide grin on Wade’s face fell so fast Peter feel a little thrown. Wade bared his teeth an snarled, “that fucker never should have stopped you. Shouldn’t have even looked at you, he’s been around long enough to know the rules. This ain’t baseball, kid. There ain’t no three strikes rule.” Wade held up one finger, leather glove creaking, “one chance is all you get. Then you gotta deal with me.” He ran the finger over his throat for good measure, as if Peter hadn’t watched him gut a guy like a fish.

“I, uh, I didn’t mean that you were, uh. Shit, okay, I didn’t mean that you were like him or anything. Crap, I’m sorry, I was trying to be funny.” Peter ruffled his hair, then grimaced at the state of his gloves. “Oh, ew. I forgot about that.” His palms were stained from the earlier bloodbath. It would wash out, the suit was made to be durable and stain resistant — hazmat suits for the win — but he needed time to wash it. And, actually, somewhere to do it. It wasn’t like he’d brought an extra set of clothes.

And like that, the sharp-toothed, vicious snarl that had affixed itself to Wade’s mouth curled into a wide grin again.

“Oh yeah, I getcha. No hard feelings. But seriously baby boy, what did you roll in on your way here? Because, damn boy, you smell like six-day-old rotting ballsack.”

Peter gagged, “oh, ew, that’s so gross. I didn’t _mean_ to get covered in, uh… blood…”

If Wade didn’t stop changing his expression so fast, Peter seriously would be getting whiplash soon.

“And why, baby boy, are you covered in blood?”

He could see it now, how Wade tilted backwards to look Peter up and down, assessing. It wasn’t the roving eyes of an interested party — not at all like how Greg had checked him out, or how he kind of wished Wade would — but a serious intake of his person. Wade’s gloved hands gently tugged at Peter’s arm, spinning him on the stool to take in his back and legs, before bringing him back around.

Peter felt a little uncomfortable. Though mostly it was because he felt like he was on display. “Umm, I kind of ran into these, uh, green dudes? I’d literally only been on the surface for like, three hours before I ran into them. One of their dogs tried to eat my face, and then it chased me into this hole, and like, a bunch of these really big green dudes showed up and I was in this little tunnel for a bit and then — “

Wade’s hand covered Peter’s mouth and the younger man paused.

“Breathe.”

Peter did so and felt a little light headed.

“Now continue, slower.”

It took a second, but Peter managed to do as asked. Sometimes the words just flew out like someone had opened a flush valve.

“Right um, okay. So, I’m in this tunnel thing and there’s a skeleton — freaked me out by the way, holy crap — and I have nowhere else to go since there was literally only one way in. I’m hoping that the dog will get bored and leave or something, because I didn’t really plan to be stuck in a caved in convenience store for a week while some kind of mutated animal tries to eat me. And then, I guess the thing’s owner heard it barking? There’s suddenly like, two _massive_ legs in front of my exit and holy crap were the big. Like, this big,” Peter tried to approximate the width of the green man’s calf with his hands.

“And uh, I don’t mean to be mean, but the guy sounded...dumb? Wait, that isn’t the right word. He spoke really weirdly, like words were hard. Not like an accent or something, but — wow I feel like a jerk — like he was a little kid. Like he was just figuring out words or something.”

Wade was nodding along. Weasel and Dom, whom Peter had almost completely forgotten about, were watching him with interest.

“I guess he didn’t know I was there or something. Which, you know, was good for me. Except one minute he’s yelling at his dog and the next…” Peter held his hand pointed straight up, then dropped it 90 degrees. “There was a bang, a gunshot I think, and then he fell over. Well, there were a few gunshots and _then_ he fell over…”

He paused, biting his lower lip. “And then there were a lot more shots. And screams, and yelling… And...and the blood… It just kind of, funnelled, you know? It was kind of an incline to get out — I think the floor had collapsed a bit? So the blood just… kept coming. And after a while I was just sitting there in a puddle of it.”

Peter had to look away at that point. He felt sick remembering it, feeling the drying blood on his clothes, smelling it. With shaking hands he pulled his gloves free and plopped them onto the bar counter. They sat there, blue soaked black.

“Eventually...the sounds stopped. I’ve never been in a fight before, never even held a gun. We don’t use them in the Vault, not the civilians anyway. Security has a few, but firing a gun inside isn’t a good idea, so we mostly use batons if we need them.” Peter shrugged. “But, uh, I know what they sound like, from recordings. Eventually it stopped and I knew I couldn’t just stay there. So I crawled out.

“There were so many bodies… They were everywhere. Some of them had bullet wounds, some of them were missings limbs. It was…” Peter shook his head to clear the images. “It was bad. Someone had come through that street and torn them all apart. And they’d been whistling the whole time, like they’d _enjoyed_ doing it.”

Over his head, Weasel and Dom shared a look. Wade shifted, standing a little straighter. He fiddled with the cuff of his left glove.

“I knew that the surface was messed up — atomic fallout and all — but I hadn’t expected to see something so terrible… I’m… I’m not ready for this.” When he looked up, Peter’s eyes were glossy. His nose had begun to turn red at the tip and he sniffled.

Wade looked gutted. Carefully he cupped Peter’s left cheek in his hand and drew him in until the younger man was resting his head against Wade’s chest. It was awkward, they had only just met, but Peter had already sunk a lot of trust into Wade and Dom — and Weasel by extension. It wouldn’t hurt to show a little kindness.

It took a moment of awkward stiffness before Peter let himself lean into Wade, accepting the hold. He missed home; missed the safety and security of it, of his Aunt May. These people were, obviously, better equipped for the wasteland than him. They were downright terrifying! But they’d shown him kindness and against his better judgement, Peter took it.

“How about this, baby boy.”

Peter leant out of Wade’s hold to look him in the face, eyes dry now.

“You’re obviously out here lookin’ for somethin’. And _I_ ,” Wade waggled his brow, “have some free time. Besides, you look like you couldn’t fight your way out of a paper bag. So, you gimme the deets and I help you out with whatever it is you’re lookin’ for. _Then_ , you take me home to meet the ‘rents.

“Never seen the inside of a Vault, figure you could give me the good ol’ tour!”

This was so simple and easy, it made Peter pause. He really had met these people less than an hour before, should he?

…

Yeah… he probably shouldn’t, but he would.

“Deal.”

 

* * *

 

 

Weasel ended up sending Wade and Peter ahead, further into the shack. The front was the bar, with heavy duty security gates keeping it separate from their private living quarters. It was obviously cobbled together — and falling apart in a few places — but the space looked lived in.

A blind woman named Al nearly took Peter out with a spiked bat, but Wade steered him clear, yelling something about a sleepover over his shoulder that seemed to placate her.

“So I figure you should de-stink a bit before I let you into my _boudoir_. You’re a little ripe.” Wade laughed, “then again, so am I. No judging!”

He showed Peter the communal bathroom on the second floor, equipped with a working shower and a rusty old water heater in the corner.

“Go ahead and strip off that suit; I’ll grab you something to sleep in while I get the blood out. Nothing clears blood like bone meal and Sugar Bombs.”

Peter honestly wasn’t sure if he should trust that combination for stain removal, but Wade looked so eager to help that he nodded anyway.

“Awesome! Go go go, I’ll be back!”

The frankly terrifying man bounded out the bathroom door and slammed it behind him, leaving Peter alone in the surprisingly clean bathroom.

His pack he stored on the far side of the tub, against the wall, with his Pip-boy on top. The modified suit came off awkwardly, having stuck to his skin with the tacky, drying blood.

A classic hazmat suit would have been water-pervious and airtight, but with his mutation Peter didn’t need the same kind of protection as most people. The fabric was woven from strands of his own webbing and was therefore considerably more durable. It was still a woven fabric though, so it absorbed liquids if they were left long enough. He doubted it would fade, but Wade had been right, he’d started smelling pretty strongly of death.

His red boots were water-pervious and went beside the tub with his mask stuffed into one leg. They didn’t need any cleaning, and he didn’t trust anyone but himself, and maybe Ned, to fiddle with the rebreather he’d cobbled together in the Vault. Peter took a moment to look over his suit before he sat it beside the door.

The torso base was like a long-sleeved shirt in a light blue, only it was sewn to a red, double breasted, hooded vest. Eight buttons ran down his torso on either side to his waist where the fabric met the pants. The pants were the same blue as the sleeves and gloves, though there was a red block of colour over the zipper. Pockets were sewn to either thigh and from the knees down an extra layer of fabric had been sewn on, just in case. The pants were usually stuffed into knee-high boots, but they were normal length otherwise.

Out of everything, his mask had been the hardest part to create. The white eye lenses had been a bitch and a half to craft, especially with the rebreather attached at the mouth. The whole thing was a balancing act of sewing skill and physics — with some glue thrown in for good measure.

The water heater worked surprisingly well and soon enough Peter had scrubbed himself down with a bar of soap and a cloth. It almost felt like home, if he could ignore the soft whistle of air through broken boards. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad place after all.

When he climbed free of the tub there was a folded pair of pajamas on the toilet reservoir. They were horribly patterned with unicorns and rainbows, but they were warm and soft so Peter didn’t complain. As promised his suit was gone and, as he padded down the hallway, he found it hanging in the next room. It looked like Wade had managed to get the blood out after all.

The man himself was in the far bedroom, door open, lounging on his bed. There were posters decorating every wall, some covering older posters until it was a mass of colourful paper. A ‘Giddy-up Buttercup’ sat in one corner, shined and gleaming.

“Oh! That was fast!” Wade scrambled off the bed, falling in a heap before leaping upright. He hovered over Peter and gently herded him into the room and over to a cot. The sheets were bright red and decorated with bats. Huh.

“Okay, so, spill. What brings a cutie patootie like you to a hellscape like this.” Wade flopped onto his stomach, kicked his feet into the air, and propped his chin up on the heels of his hands. He too had changed, though the mask remained, rolled to his nose. “I know I already offered my services but I gotta know the basics here. What’re we lookin’ for? Got revenge to serve cold? A lost dog? An old flame?” He gasped comically, “did someone steal your baby while you were in cryo?!”

“What?! No! What, how would that even — just no!” Peter couldn’t help but laugh. “I uh, I need to get supplies for my Vault. I… I screwed up a while ago, and I caused damage that is now, literally, putting the Vault at risk. It’s my fault, so I have to fix it. And…” He gulped, looking down at his hands. “Because of me my uncle is in cryo. He’s sick, real sick, and cryo was all we could do for him. But now the cryo pod is failing and we don’t have what we need to fix it.”

“So you’re going on a crusade across the wastes to save family? Be still be barely-beating heart.” Wade put a hand over his heart and grinned. “Sounds like a big deal, baby boy. You got any idea what you’re looking for? Or where? New York is pretty big, even mostly demolished by atomic warfare.”

“Oh, uh, yeah. See, Vault-Tec was actually owned by Stark Industries before the war, so all of the materials came out of their warehouses in New York City. We have shipping manifests from pre-war and a lot of map data. So I combined the two and charted a trip that would take me to the main warehouse. It’s actually attached to Star Tower, right beside it! And, I mean, if that place is a bust then I figured out where I might find a few more places. They’re really not that far. It’s just that everything is so broken that I have to reroute a lot, and then, you know…”

Wade was nodding as if he, in fact, _did_ know.

“The city’s been through a lot and the topography has changed a lot in the last two centuries. But it’s my stomping grounds so I know where I’m going. Not like we can miss SI; it’s a fucking ugly piece of pre-war shit.” He said it so jovially that Peter couldn’t help but laugh.

“I haven’t seen it personally, but if it’s anything like my Vault then it can’t be pretty.” Which was partially a lie. Peter found the fluorescent lighting and stainless steel wall to be homey, if a little cold. It was all he knew.

Wade’s smile dimmed and he spun on the bed to sit upright. “In all seriousness though, babycakes. Stark Tower isn’t a nice place. ‘Good People’ don’t live there.” He seemed to debate something for a moment, tilting his head back and forth, then came to a decision.

“They’re the same kind of people you met this morning. The green and angry kind. Lots of radiation-induced rage issues there. They’d faster eat you then, well, uh… Okay, so, they’re probably going to try and eat you right away. From personally experience,” and Wade placed a hand over his heart again and Peter watched his scars shift, “they definitely don’t care if you’re alive when they try to chow down. Literally _do not care_ if you’re still breathing.”

“I feel like there’s a story there.”

“Oh definitely! But you ain’t gettin’ it today! You’ve already got nightmares lined up the block and I don’t want to add any more to that list… Well, any more than I already did.” Wade was stiff backed, but his mouth was twisted.

“C’mon, I’m not gonna wet the bed over what you just said! I mean, yeah, today scared the crap out of me. But like, I feel safe here. You and Dom, even Weasel. I don’t even know you people but I somehow know that you’re safe. I don’t think — no, I _know_ — that none of you would hurt me.”

Wade stuck his index finger in the air. “Actually, Weasel totally would. He would trade you for like, a pair of comfy socks. Just sayin’.”

Peter snorted. “Okay, so maybe Weasel would. But _you_ wouldn’t. And you’re the one I’m trusting here.”

Though he didn’t know him very well, Peter thought that Wade looked touched.

“That means a lot to me, baby boy. But, uh, I gotta come clean. I’m not a ‘Good Person’. I’m actually a really shitty person, and that’s all on me. Can’t blame shitty parents when I’ve had over two centuries to figure my shit out.” He shrugged, looking like he wasn’t in fact telling his life story. “I was a merc before the collapse and when the rads hit I just kept on doin’ what I’m good at.”

Wade waved at his face and the flipped his hands over to display the scars. “I was a mutant before all this shit. Like, a _real_ mutant, not those green ball sacks. They came from some asshole playing God with radiation. Mine came from genetic defects and a lot of experimental treatments for brain cancer.

“I tell ya, the best part about going into the apocalypse lookin’ like a cross between an avacado and a topographical map of Idaho is that you’re already used to people calling you a freak.”

“Wade…”

“Naw, I’m over it baby boy. I’ve looked like this a long time. I’m used to it. Though, if I’m honest, I miss having hair.” He sighed and ran a hand over his masked scalp. “God do I miss having hair… Anyhoo, back to my confession!”

The mercenary looked far too cheerful for this conversation.

“Since I’m a supremely shitty person, I’ve got to confess that I — me — was the guy who shot and chopped up all those mutants earlier. They’re a bunch of assholes. Generally, the only good mutant is a dead mutant. They attack settlements, kill and eat people — though not always in that order —, and generally make living hell for everybody. So by rule of thumb I take them out when I see ‘em. Simple, ‘eh?”

“Uh...I guess?” Realistically, Peter should have been running away, screaming at the top of his lungs. But Wade hadn’t been anything but kind to him. He hadn’t in any way, been obligated to confess to Peter that he’d massacred the mutants. He hadn’t needed to explain that he was prewar, or a mutant himself, though a different kind than what Peter assumed were now the norm. Killing people was definitely shitty, and horrible. But… but if they were nearly as bad as Wade said, and they hurt so many people, Peter wasn’t in a position to judge how these surface dwellers protected themselves.

“Look, um… I’m not a killer. I don’t like violence, really.” Peter wrung his hands and picked at his cuticles. Suddenly he couldn’t watch Wade’s expressive face as he spoke. “I know that it’s dangerous up here, and that sometimes you don’t have a choice, but I have a mission and I need to complete it. A lot of people are counting on me… people I care about. And, uh, I’m willing to do things I never would before if it means getting what I need to help them.

“I’m not saying that I’ll go out and kill people, but I’ll fight if I need to.”

Peter looked up from his hands to find Wade staring at him, solemn and stiff. “I’ll protect your back if you protect mine. If you’re willing to help me that it.”

A wide smile broke out over Wade’s face and he leapt forward to Peter’s cot. He snatched up the younger man’s hands and pumped them twice in a handshake.

“Deal! But I gotta know one thing first. Super important, can’t move forward without it.”

“Uh,” Peter leant away, eyes wide, “what?” Goddammit, there was the crack in his voice again. Shit, balls. “What do you want to know.”

Wade leant in real close and Peter could smell him. He smelled like musk, like leather — which made sense, given his suit and mask — but also like hand cream and mint. It was a super weird combination but it worked. And, Peter noticed, Wade’s hands were oddly soft for all the scar tissue. Maybe that’s where the hand cream smell came from.

“I need to know because it’s really killing me here, don’t judge but howoldareyou.”

“Huh? Wait, say that again? _Slower_.”

Wade paused in rushing out the words again, and spoke at a lower pace. “How old are you. Because, like, you’re super adorable and you have an ass to die for — and I would, just sayin’ — but I need to know if you’re legal or not. Swear to Cheesus I’ll cut off my own dick if I just complimented your ass and you’re actually a kid, holy shit.”

Honestly, in his entire life, Peter had never been asked that question. The Vault was small enough that everyone knew who he was and when he was born. Small communities did that. But now, as realization dawned on him, Peter realized that up here, no one knew who he was. Not a single person had any kind of information on him that could form an opinion. Including Wade.

“I’m twenty-seven. I’ll be twenty-eight next month actually. So, uh, yeah, totally not a kid.”

“Thank sweet baby jesus!” Wade threw his arms into the air and did a victory dance, wiggling lavaciously until he fell over onto his back. He palmed his crotch with a sigh and, for a second, Peter was a little uncomfortable. “Super glad I don’t have to cut you off, little buddy. I hate growing limbs back, and you’re my favourite!”

Peter snorted a laugh and grinned down at Wade. “Would you have seriously cut off your dick?”

“Oh yeah,” Wade sat upright. His shirt had ridden up and was gathered atop his pectorals, leaving his stomach bare. The scars covered that skin too, but it was still a really nice body that Peter couldn’t help but appreciate. “Lost bits of me plenty of times! The fun bag is still always the worst though. Never grows in right…”

“That’s more than I needed to know, but… thanks?”

A wide grin and Wade hauled himself upright. “No problemo baby boy! But we should probably conk out if we want to make it to SI tomorrow. The other side of the bridge is a fucking shit show and I don’t know about you but I get tired after killing.” He yawned, and it looked real.

“Yeah, sure. I’m pretty exhausted myself.” Peter wiggled into the sleeping bag provided and checked that his bag, mask, boots, and Pip-boy were beside the bed where he’d left them. Then, with a little twist of his wrist, he shot a load of webbing across them, sticking the good together. It didn’t hurt to be careful, after all.

“I’ll wake you in the morning, baby boy.” Another squeaky yawn and the light went out.

Peter was left with the soft sounds of Wade breathing and the creak of the shack around them.

This was good. He would be fine. Everything would be fine. He’d get the materials and head back to the Vault in no time.

He thought that mantra to himself until he drifted off into dreams of flowers and bone.


End file.
